


Friends make true love into a knock-knock joke.

by lifetheuniverseandeverything42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Deductions, Domestic Disputes, Domestic Fluff, Everyone Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Major Original Character(s), Mary Morstan Dies, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Mentions of Suicide, No Slash, No Smut, Past Drug Use, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Past Suicidal John Watson, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Insert, The Author Regrets Nothing, babysitter for rosie, implied/referenced PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-08-19 23:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20217700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifetheuniverseandeverything42/pseuds/lifetheuniverseandeverything42
Summary: Sherlock Holmes & Dr WatsonThat famous pairing of consulting detective and retired army doctor.Friends - forever. Isn't that what they say?But it isn't exclusive, friends can never be exclusive.So when another brilliant, slightly damaged but unnoticeably-noticeable mind comes right into their domestic-yet-still-hectic midst; whatever are Sherlock and Watson to do?(spoilers for The Final Problem)





	1. Oh the odds and ends of hours we keep.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have now watched all the Sherlock episodes (hopefully so far - to Series 4) and wanted to add my own take on what happens to them all after the end of The Final Problem. This, in its own way, is what this is. It is also an outpouring of me, into a character (no guesses as to which) and allowing myself to imagine myself placed (imaginarily) into the BBC's Sherlock world. But also to bring my own dilemmas, puzzles, deductions and emotional wringing to the group, I mean - of course!

Tell me Sherlock, what do you see? Who is it you see before you? Please tell me? If I can fool _you_, then I can fool any-body. Don't you _see_? _Can't_ you see? Am I _lying_ to you? Have I been lying to you, _Sher_-lock. Have I been _ly_-ing?

*John's POV*

Rosie is getting older now, I can hardly believe how fast. It seems like she is simply growing right before our eyes. With the cases, and the running around after one criminal or another, and the late nights, randomly early mornings and Mrs Hudson's hip meaning she can't always manage the stairs nowadays; finding a babysitter isn't easy. Molly helps - a lot. Really, she's an absolute life-saver, sorry pun unintended. But it just isn't working, we need help. An unofficial, though permeant and reliable helper - for Rosie, that is. Sherlock has needed help since he left the womb, and I... Well I sort of do that now. But Rosie, it isn't fair on Rosie. If we can't sort something out, if we can't find someone suitable to babysit, reliably and easily (at the crazy times that we need) then I don't want to think about what we'll have to do.

The main issue with all of this, however, as usual (though perhaps in a more unusual way, for him) is Sherlock. I mean, of course it is. Only, the reason he is being such a pain-in-the-neck is that he is being overprotective. Like a father... I know, strange right? But he is the _best_ with Rosie, I wouldn't have let him near her, wouldn't have moved back in unless I knew that, for certain, she was safe with him, around him, or in his proximity. And vice versa really. Sherlock and children, you wouldn't really think was the best mix in the world, but anyway it seems to be. She makes him laugh and he makes her laugh, and honestly, in my opinion, nothing can ever be wrong with a little laughter. Especially for our quirky dysfunctional little family, after - everything. But Sherlock is being unreasonable, he's been the deducing the pants off every potential babysitter we've interviewed, and (as expected) not one was 'good enough' for him, nor - by extension, I guess - Rosie. And it's beginning to drive me up the wall, though really, it is Sherlock remember.

Now we've got someone. I think - I hope! I suspect she's our last chance at finding someone to babysit. Our hours that we're needing babysat are crazy, not many have a schedule - or life even - to cope, or even be able to fit at all. This one's name is Lucy, so I'm told, Lucy Ponto. Nice enough name, Sherlock could tell you her date of birth, parents full names and occupations if I gave him the chance, I'm sure. Which is why I haven't told him her name yet, just that a new one (another new one) will be here this afternoon and to be up and dressed (in clothes please) ready. Or as ready as Sherlock can _ever_ be to meet a new person...

She is prompt, a good start. Knocks on the door sharply three times in quick succession, Sherlock's head snaps up and our eyes meet, I can practically see the cogs whirring behind those cool blue eyes. "Be nice," I remind him as I pass through into the hall and downstairs to the door. I can almost feel his reflexive scowl prodding my back as I go. I open the door of 221B Baker Street, hoping that it is indeed our soon-to-be babysitter (_hopefully _) and not a client, my luck seems to be holding because behind the door stands a young woman - ignoring true stereotypes for just a moment, but a young woman is more likely to be a babysitter, not to mention she did not look particularly upset or troubled or in any way like one of our standard clients. She stood, calmly but confidently in our doorway, straightening almost imperceptibly as she saw me; light brown hair pulled back (though not fixatedly) into a simple pony tail and clothing clean, simple and perfunctory, not overly glamourous nor intense. She was pretty, in a sort of solemn and simple way, freckles spilling over her nose and bright, quick, _clever_ eyes behind reasonably long lashes. I welcome her in and shut the door behind her, gesturing for her to go on up the stairs to the flat.

*Sherlock's POV*

John got me up earlier this morning, I'm uncertain as to why exactly he was so alert and awake so early but suspect either: Rosie woke him, a nightmare of some variety, or anxiety over their present lack-of-babysitter situation. If I had to guess, I'd say some variation of all three. Classic John, worrying about everything and anything, the little and the big things near equally. He's a good father, and a good friend; however unessential he sometimes seems John is _irreplaceable_.

Suddenly I hear a sharp rap on the door downstairs - strange, I didn't hear a car pull up outside - John looks to me and our eyes meet. "Be nice," he tells me, with the same placating (nearly _soothing_) tone of voice he uses on Rosie. I barely resist the urge to scowl intensely at him and succeed until he turns his back then level my worst (that I would ever give John) at his retreating figure. Once the door closes behind him, I move swiftly to the window and stand there gazing down at the outside of our door at the figure waiting there. After rapidly scanning the street for any sign of a vehicle, of which there are none; I silently study the brown-haired stranger who wishes to babysit my goddaughter. In an instant she looks up, meeting my surprised gaze calmly, then the door below opens and John is there inviting her in. I watch her step inside without looking back up at me, head bowed almost as she crosses the threshold and enters the hall. I hear John direct her up the stairs and I turn, refusing to pretend that I had not been watching out the window and banish our moment prior, remaining standing near to the window as she enters. For a fleeting second, our eyes meet again; a quiet declaration and order equally present there - both _I know_ and _say nothing_.

She focuses on John. That makes sense doesn't it, he's the father, the one whose child, whose daughter, she would be looking after. That made perfect sense. They make chitchat, she in a cool - though to some degree nervous - way, as he asks her about her day: 'fine, thanks' and she his: 'good, good'. But she completely ignores my presence. Like I am not even there, if John notices my sudden invisibility then he is staying silent on the matter.

"Tea?" John offers simply, standing behind her as she seats herself sombrely and smiling across the room at me as I do the same,

"Tea would be lovely please," John's smile smoothly transitions from me to her as he turns to pour three mugs. "Milk no sugar please." she requests in a clear voice, that still wavers slightly, betraying her underlying anxiety at the situation. John picks up on it too, as out of her eyeline he meets my eyes and raise a single eyebrow - silent, unjudging, simply noticing and basically commenting. I did mention how amazing John is right?

"Exquisite manners," John responds with a small laugh, obliging and handing her a mug of tea, which she accepts gracefully with a small smile to answer his and holds it tightly, her whitening fingers betraying her mounting anxiety as she gently blew on the surface of the light brown liquid within. "Wouldn't mind Rosie picking up more good manners," John continues, obviously endeavouring to alleviate the tension permeating the room. "Any at all, really. Considering what Sherlock here teaches her..." he laughs a short hearty laugh - presumably in part due to my immediate fierce scowl in response to his comment - and a small giggle echoes him from our nervous guest. Smiling benevolently - mainly focused on our prospective babysitter (still trying to calm her perhaps?) - he left to get Rosie from Mrs Hudson downstairs, and that's when it happened. 

The instant he left the room, it was as if she had flicked a switch, she swivelled smoothly round to me. Suddenly, instantly serious.

"Well?" She asked me, "Do I meet your oh so _exacting_ standards, Mr Holmes?" There was a challenge in that question - rhetorical question. I scanned her, and she allowed me.

She was not thin, not by any means, but was not what you would can fat either, her clothing was baggy, too large and clearly a little old, well-worn but relatively well cared for too. Clean and freshly washed, and she had showered... The previous night. Her hair was plain and brown, utterly undyed and was simply pulled back into a basic and uncomplicated ponytail, her face bore no make-up, nor any sign of ever having worn make-up. She was a student, that much was clear, the signs and signals of studying late into the night painfully evident - she was used to long nights and staying awake at all hours. But long before she got to university... Why?

She had not 'dressed up' as previous interviewees had done, she had made no effort to impress me with words, but instead had just let me see her and read her and know her. Honesty - it was so rare in this form. Then I glanced over her again and realised it: she was hiding something. It had to be unimportant to her care of Rosie, if it were to affect that she wouldn't hide it, she wouldn't even be here. She cared already for that little girl whom she hadn't even met, that much was tenderly clear.

So what could she be hiding? Something in her past? No, something of her present. A boyfriend? An ex causing trouble? Or a recent breakup? No, surely not. She obviously had as much interest in relationships as I myself do. Then what? As I studied her anew, I noticed that her hands were shaking a little now; the scrutiny she had prepared for she had found unpreparable. Gently I approached, and took hold of the quivering fingers, and held them as warmly as I dared and spoke in a way that was ironically placid and somehow not (I think) condescending but welcoming: "Welcome to 221B Baker Street, Miss Ponto."

"Please," she replied sagely, "Call me Lucy."

She was... Different. I freely admit it. And that was enough. Wasn't it? I couldn't read her, not enough, but she knew that, and she knew I would let her in, let John let her in, she knew that she had won.


	2. Amongst the spotlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hired and among them, Lucy finds her feet in a world of detectives, doctors and little girls.  
While her new world must get to grips with her.

"Wow," she had said, once we'd told her: all of it all.

Then she turned to Sherlock and asked him one question: "How could you just forgive like that, just give in and help her. Surrender to saving her as best you could, no matter the cost?"

He considered it for a moment, eyes flicking over her as she sat, hunched forward attentive to his every breath; both of them studiously ignoring me.

"Well," he answered finally, "She was my sister." 

She nodded curtly once then faced me once more:

"Don't worry," she murmured, "I won't tell _anything_ to _anyone_. Sherlock knows I won't." Our pairs of eyes shot across to where he sat, motionless, observing us. "You can trust me." she finished simply.

And strangely, we did. She knew us, in some way beyond anyone else could; like Sherlock's sister did and Mary had. And it was a comfort, to have this reminder there, in their lives; and Rosie's.

*John POV*

I got out of the taxi Sherlock let me leave in, checking the slip of paper our new babysitter had given me - graffitied with her address. I looked up at the small relatively new block of flats it had directed me to, then after consulting the scrawl again, confidently entered the hallway and made my way up the plain pastel stairway. As I approached the designated door, helpfully labelled _'L Ponto'_ in a bold typeface; I paused momentarily. Time spent (possibly too much) around Sherlock seemed to have rubbed off on me and listening to my instincts I halted just in front of the door. From within, softly, with that almost ethereal quality, as if coming from a dream, was the gentle sound of music. A melody I vaguely recognised (one of those 'I-know-I've-heard-it-someplace-but-couldn't-for-the-life-of-me-tell-you-where' songs) played patiently and carefully on the piano - or keyboard perhaps. As I waited, the accompanying lyrics drifted out, sung out quietly in what was clearly Lucy's surprisingly good voice: _"I'm only. One. Call. Away. I'll be there to. Save. The. Day. Superman got. No-thing on me-e-e. I'm only. One. Call. Away..."_ Then she broke off, as if she couldn't maintain the song's quiet vocals while the chorded piano notes continued, if a touch shakily, and the shockingly emotion-filled song wound down to its gradual end, the music dropping off like she could no longer bear to play on.

I prepared myself to knock on the door - realising somewhere in the back of my mind that I'd lingered too long and that I was in fact on the clock - I noticed shuffling sounds inside and rapped on the door; working hard to rearrange my face into one of someone that had not just (sort of accidentally) intruded into an incredibly private and personal moment. Within seconds Lucy opened the door and stood there ramrod straight, as if she was being held up by a thread from the top of her head – and, on closer examination, not much else. Awkwardly clearing my throat, I met her inquiring (and somewhat watery) gaze - a mistake. The flickering emotions that swept across her face were too fast and half-hidden for me to decipher, but I'm certain embarrassment, anger and hurt were present.

"I-" I tried to explain, but she cut me off.

"It's fine. It doesn't matter, just..." She shifted awkwardly, "Next time: knock." I nodded quickly and obeyed her gesture to come in.

A keyboard lay on the floor near a sofa laden with pillows and blankets, a TV angled towards it from the corner; a desk littered with papers and a half-open laptop humming away stood facing the window near where a few tightly packed bookshelves stood and a simple archway led through to a practical - if limited - kitchen space.

"It's nice," I stated, more out of a need to say something than any other. "Yeah, well... I like it small." She calmly met my eyes, perceptively answering my unspoken comment about the _tiny_ dimensions of the flat. Unconsciously I smiled at her, "You remind me so much of Sherlock when you do that." Neither of us needed to clarify what I was referring to. She smiled then - a little tiredly but it was a smile nonetheless – and proceeded to turn and collect a bag from by the desk which she began to pack haphazardly. "How long will you be this time?" she asked calmly, as if we discussing the weather not running after dangerous criminals with no back-up.

"A couple of hours at least, if that's okay?" I replied, wanting to be certain she was fine with the _extremely_ unorthodox arrangement.

"I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't. Anyway, Rosie's a cutie." She grinned a little stronger that time and finished off her packing with her laptop and a fistful of accompanying wires for that and her phone, along with a curious small metal tin.

"I hope there's not weed in there." I joked, gesturing flatly with one arm. 

"_What?_" She seemed startled, "Oh, no - no. Nothing like that.” She paused briefly, “Don't be ridiculous John. I am _not_ that kind of girl." She closed the bag and strode towards me, shooing me from the flat and swiftly locking the door behind us.

"I know, I was only joking." I told her, a touch quietly. She glanced at me, in a way very like Sherlock - reading me like a book, as if she could hear my thoughts - then pointedly looked away. 

"Shall we?"

"Yes, come on. The cabby should be waiting." 

"Cabby?" She replied with eyebrows raised, then continued completely deadpan. "How exciting." My lips quirked upwards into another smile as we descended the stairs to the pavement outside and into the parked taxi. "Why did you come a get me? Won't Sherlock have scarpered by the time you get back?"

"He's almost cracked it and wanted you ready with Rosie when we needed to go." I replied, adding with a grin, "My collecting you was insurance, if you don’t object. Means he won't run off once he's got it because he won't leave Rosie on her own.” Her only response was her own twitch of the lips.

"He's sweet with her, isn't he?"

I smiled softly, gazing out of the window and into my memories: "Yes, he is rather." I thought furiously for a moment then turned to her, as she sat (a little uncomfortable evidently in an abnormal setting for her) watching the traffic flow like water around the city. “Lucy,” I began. She flung a glance in my direction and her eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“No.” I tried to speak, but she held up a hand to stop me. “Don’t say it. Don’t even _think_ about it.” I looked at her warily, desperate to impart some of my brimming thoughts and emotions on the matter.

“It was beautiful.”

“So,” she shrugged and went back to observing through her window.

“_Lucy…_” My tone a touch protesting. “Can't you explain, just a _little_?”

“Just leave it alone, John.” Her voice suddenly so very _weary_. Not fed up nor exasperated, not even weary with me. Just – weary. With… Life? I sat back from her, frustrated. I am _not_ Sherlock, I could not even begin to decipher what was going on inside her head, not even all my training in psychiatrics as a doctor (which was admittedly not much) gave me some clue as to the source of her exhaustion which seemed, at least to me, not entirely physical.

*Sherlock POV*

I solved the final piece of the puzzle minutes after John left to get Lucy. I had told him to contact her so that once I had the last bit Rosie would already be in safe hands and we could leave immediately. But instead of texting her on the number he certainly had, he left to trek partway across London to collect her. I knew why. I mean, of _course_ I knew why. I'm not a moron. But seen as I was trapped here for the near ten minutes - given her address (yes of course I peeked at the paper she'd left us) usual traffic speeds at this hour and the supposedly customary social niceties John would indulge in - I reasoned that a little playtime with the very purpose of my incarceration wouldn't hurt in the slightest.

After my estimated ten minutes had elapsed spent in illative play with my _favourite_ god-daughter (or my only god-daughter depending on how you see it) I left her in her room happily building towers and knocking them over in numbing succession and retreated downstairs to loiter by the window, ostentatiously with a book - totally not looking out of the window watching for John and Lucy to appear. Pondering living arrangements: since John had moved back in we’d had quite a conundrum as Rosie needed her own room – if for any reason, simply to store all her accompanying paraphernalia – John had set her up in his ‘old’ room and my bedroom, being the larger became our shared space. We did _not_ share a bed. That was never even suggested, I slept on the couch – John had protested for a while, but I won him over (read as bullied him) to let me unhindered, pointing out that that was where I customarily did the majority of my sleeping if ever I indulged in the very ‘human’ pastime. My clothes remained in my room, John’s in the IKEA wardrobe that he’d transferred from his suburban house along with some other items too soaked in memories to bear getting rid of. I didn’t mind: what made John happy, made me… Well, if not _happy_, not at least not – homicidal.

After too long a delay to dismiss _entirely_, the taxi containing my lost flatmate and our babysitter pulled up to the curb and the pair got out. John heading instantly to the front door, Lucy hovering for a moment on the roadside, pausing long enough to once again glance up and catch me in my spying, _freezing_ me in place until she departed to the hallway below.

Turning swiftly so as not to be caught worrying for him, I darted into the kitchen and picked up one of my experiments at random. Thus, when John entered, he found me busily examining a rather disgusting swollen human spleen, deliberately not looking up as he came in.

“Got her?” I asked nonchalantly, replacing the oddly-coloured organ back into its jar with some dissatisfaction, although refusing to show it. I swivelled to face John, as he eyed the grotesque item parting from my hand with undisguised relief and glared at him until he answered. Curiously, it was not until I had _thoroughly_ washed my hands.

“Yes, Sherlock, you know I have.” I scowled at him again and he continued unheeded. “You've got it then?”

“Yes of course I’ve got it, what do you take me for – Anderson?”

“Oh, pardon me for breathing!” he retorted. As I opened my mouth to respond a quiet voice cut in from the corner.

“Play nicely boys.”

Lucy stood there, bag placed by the door and her dark-blue hoodie pulled tightly around her beneath firmly crossed arms. “If you’re going to go, _go_.” She told us.

John and I exchanged glances then moved as one, John to flit upstairs and say both ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ to his daughter and myself towards Lucy. As John left the room, I offered her some hurried but sufficiently detailed explanations: “Rosie has been playing blocks and probably still is, she will need to eat around five o’clock, and be put to bed no later than six. We should be back tonight - meaning any time from ten to two in the morning. Are you still okay with this?”

“Yes,” she replied confidently, lifting her head slightly and squaring her shoulders to stand tall and look me in the eye as bravely as she dared. “Nothing happened,” she added, “I was unprepared that’s all.” 

“Lucy,” I cautioned her, “You should know not to lie to me.” Her chin dropped and her gaze followed it rapidly, the carpet suddenly seeming very interesting.

“Sherlock.” John called from the hall, I lifted my voice from the hushed tones of our conversation to respond.

“Coming John.” As I made to move to the door, I looked over our babysitter closely. She was giving more away this time – a sleepless night, spent mostly typing, dark clothing possibly covering up some kind of physical evidence or _clues_, shoes unmuddied and regularly worn half-laced – it was almost as if she was drip feeding me hints; as a challenge, no doubt. But for whom? Which of us was she confronting? Me? John? Or herself…

I straightened resolutely and quite purposefully turned my back, in the reflection of the mirror - out of the corner of my eye - I saw her stiffen almost reflexively; before raising her gaze to meet my own quite steadily in the shiny glass. My brows twitched into a frown reflexively and I departed, racing down the stairs to overtake John as he stood waiting at their base.

“Come along _Dr_ Watson,” I announced, lightly teasing, “The game-“

“Is on.” He finished with a smile, following me like the helpful and loyal canine friend he masquerades so often as, out of the door and into the next taxi to come down the street. I looked back once, to the window where I habitually watched from, but saw no discernible movement from within.

Facing forward once more, I moved towards the cracking and conclusion of my case – my _only_ focus – and definitely _not_ away from the curious mystery wrapped up in a worry, I was leaving behind at 221B.


	3. The Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secrets begin to unravel.

A band had set themselves up down the street a ways from our flat and Sherlock being Sherlock had objected clamorously to the 'racket' (his words) they were making. He was just on the verge of marching out there - in his dressing gown I might add - to tell them what he thought of them face to face, when Lucy spoke up...

"They're just making music Sherlock." He opened his mouth to retort but she didn't give him chance. "No, there's no _why_. Because it's fun, because it's beautiful. Because there's nothing like it in the world. _You_ play, you create with your violin. Did your sister teach you _nothing_ about music and emotions? Those emotions you hide, you push away down deep to never see the light of day nor your conscious mind ever again. The music _found_ them, Sherlock. Music is the most powerful thing in the whole universe, except perhaps love. And that pair go hand in hand." He scowled furiously at her mention of romance. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I have perhaps a _single_ romantic bone in my body - maybe my incus or malleus - so do you really. It just suits us better not to admit it, even to _ourselves_ and especially to each other. Let alone _them_." She gestured to where I stood, speechless, holding Rosie.

"Music, it transcends all that. And more than that, _you_ know it." She breathed in sharply, "Take it all in, then let it out. That's the crucial part - if you keep breathing in, you'll explode. You keep it all in and you'll die. You'll kill yourself. And then-" She stopped and turned to face him, squaring up to him with her chin bravely held high. Then finished curtly with a one-shoulder shrug, in a cold emotionless voice: "Song dies."

*John POV*

We got back late, not as late as we sometimes do, but still very late. It was almost 12 when we crept back inside the flat - well I crept, Sherlock walked as he always did, heedless of the creaking floorboards and the banging of doors.

"Sherlock," I hissed in a low voice, "Will you be quiet, Rosie will be asleep."

"She will?" he replied in such a tone that I wasn't sure if he was joking or not.

"Yes." I told him in a whisper as we entered the kitchen together. "It's nearly midnight. Of course, she'll be asleep." I stared at him incredulously.

"Don't look at me like that John," he said without even looking at me and flopping onto the sofa with a sigh. "I keep far from normal hours myself and really so do you, and anyway isn't it the job of babies to sleep at irregular hours?"

"Rosie's old enough now - oh what does it matter." I threw my arms up in the air and abandoned my half-complete tea-making process. "I'm gonna go upstairs and check on her and find Lucy."

"Why isn't she down here, she knows she doesn't have to stay with her right?" he asked me, a hint of concern leaking through - for Lucy or Rosie though, I couldn't tell.

"I don't know Sherlock," I replied a little exasperated, throwing him one backwards glance; in part out of irritation, in part out of curiosity for the interest he was showing. Then I trotted on upstairs.

"Lucy?" I whispered, "Are you in here? Is Rosie asleep?" As my eyes got accustomed to the darkness - gently lit with both Rosie's softly glowing night-light and the harsher light of Lucy's laptop - I picked out the darkly dressed figure curled up in the armchair by my daughter's bedside.

"Come in John. She's been out like a light for hours now." Lucy whispered quietly, though calmly and matter-of-factly.

"Are you working on anything?" I asked her after checking over my daughter's sleeping shape.

"Just a bog-standard essay." she replied, simply.

"Why are you in here then?" I asked her, curious.

"It's not that dark to me, anyway she keeps me sane." She glanced over at the sleeping girl, clearly not about to offer any more information.

"She keeps you sane? How?" I questioned, half intrigued, half worried.

"A reminder." she answered with a bitter-sweet smile. "Of who I once was. Of who we all were, once upon a time: just children asleep when the sun goes away. And a determination." she added.

"For what?"

"To not let the same mistakes happen again." She frowned then stood smoothly, closed laptop tucked under one arm. "Shall we?" She gestured to the door and we left Rosie to her peaceful slumber. Lucy jogged soundlessly down the stairs and watched her for a moment, puzzled for the snapshot into her head that she had given me; then joined her and Sherlock in the room below.

*Sherlock POV*

While John sought out his offspring and Lucy I chose to sink down onto our worn sofa with a weary sigh - I'm perfectly capable of staying awake for days on end, but that night I was exhausted. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a half-familiar backpack propped against the wall, Lucy's, I recalled seeing her clutching it earlier this evening; it felt likes days ago but it was only a matter of hours. Breathing another sigh into the slightly chill air of the flat, I heaved myself up and had just strode across to the temptingly half-unzipped bag when I heard the sound of Lucy and, after a short delay, John on the rickety stairs (their steps were easily discernible from each other). Straightening, I stepped quickly past the treasure trove of secrets and into the kitchen, ostentatiously to boil the kettle.

Lucy moved through the doorway to stare unrelenting at my stubbornly turned back, she spun to grasp her weathered backpack with one hand, jerkily zipping it resolutely shut with her other. John followed her in - and though he eyed her a little warily - moved past her stationary figure towards me, to take the kettle from my weak grip and finish my barely-begun process of tea-making. Yet his hands moved on auto-pilot, he was distracted; he kept throwing glances at Lucy which she was determined to act oblivious of. I sighed and the pair both quirked a smile; deciding in unison without discussion to not talk about - whatever had clearly happened - in my presence. Just to irritate me...

I huffed another sigh and Lucy turned to slip her closed laptop into her bag with a soft thunk, her ducked head hiding the grin I was certain was present. John felt no such restraint, grinning openly at me as he handed me a mug of piping tea; the other he curiously set down on the table before fetching his own.

Lucy stood from crouching over her backpack and quickly picked up the tea from its place on our coffee table - the ironies of the English language aside - thanking John as she completed the sweeping action and brought the heated mug to her lips, blowing gently on the surface of the liquid with short precise breaths.

With a low muttering grumble, I rose from my chair and strode to the (technically John's) bedroom and began to pace... I was supremely frustrated about my lack of information on her, I had absolutely no clue as to how she had passed her time in our flat. Not that I was paranoid, but I was paranoid. She cared for Rosie, that much was clear, but John and I; well, I hadn't a clue how she felt about me. She tensed almost imperceptibly whenever we came near and definitely did not like loud noises, sudden or otherwise. Nothing quite added up.

There was a secret for sure, but I wasn't sure how much John knew - I resolved to ask him once Lucy had left, which should have been any minute now: it _was_ nearly half midnight by that point.

From beyond the firmly closed bedroom door, I expected to hear the sounds of Lucy making her departure. Instead I was surprised to hear literally nothing - not even conversation in hushed tones. Pouting without even knowing it, I sunk onto the (John's) bed with another sigh and reluctantly gave in to my still aching need to sleep.

I didn't stir until later that morning, greeted back to consciousness with a small smirk from a nearby John.

"So much for the Great Sherlock Homes not using a bed." he teased. With a grumble I heaved myself upright and glared at him. He just continued to smile, even more broadly.

"Is she gone?" I asked a little hesitantly.

John quirked an eyebrow at me before replying: "Yes Sherlock, she left hours ago. Its nearly 9 o'clock. _A_m." he added almost as an afterthought.

I stared at John actively willing for him to crumble under my cool gaze and tell me the events of the previous night. He just sighed and got up from the old armchair (brought from his - and Mary's - old house and moved in here, only he sat there...) where he was perched. "Get up and dressed Sherlock, Lestrade texted. There's a case you might find..." He paused, seemingly searching for the correct word, "Appealing."


End file.
